


make a spark, break the dark

by mushishis



Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: M/M, changed the title bc LMAO, i've been working on this since october i'm so sorry, it's gay so it's got that going for it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-08
Updated: 2016-07-08
Packaged: 2018-07-22 07:18:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,877
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7425310
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mushishis/pseuds/mushishis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>wide eyed, you look at me<br/>set on fire in a silver dream<br/>spin round you can feel the breeze<br/>count one, two, three</p>
            </blockquote>





	make a spark, break the dark

**Author's Note:**

> honestly i don't even know what to say. it doesn't go with canon bc i started this literally like 8 months ago but anyways this is for u, zoie. i love u
> 
> (title/summary is from lose it by oh wonder!!)

Of all the first impressions he’s ever had about anyone, Jack’s is the one that Bitty was the most wrong about.

Thinking that Jack is nothing but a responsible adult was probably his biggest mistake. Now, he knows better. He sees the way Jack’s eyes light up on chicken finger day, knows that his favorite place to sit is a counter, notices how he purses his lips to keep from smiling when someone (Chowder) makes an awful pun.

Bitty loves it.

-

Jack’s sitting on the railing of the Haus’ porch, the heels of his old sneakers tapping against the banister rhythmically as he swings his feet. It’s one of those rare days in early March where the wind doesn’t bite, and everything feels damp from the sun’s half-hearted attempt to melt the snow. It’s not warm enough to be sitting outside, really, but that’s never stopped him before. He’s studying a particularly muddy spot on the lawn and it’s worth questioning if he’s even aware of the shouting coming from the lacrosse house across the street.

There’s something simple about the goosebumps showing on his bare arms and the way that the tip of his nose is just barely red that makes it feel like for once, if just for a moment, nothing’s wrong.

The moment doesn’t last long because, well, that’s not entirely true. There’s always something wrong. There’s always a thousand things running through his mind, creating an obnoxious one-sided conversation of _who do i sign with i need to call george did i remember to submit that paper for mod civ yesterday did i wake up shitty from pacing in the hallway all night i have to work on that play this weekend je dois etudier pour l’examen d’histoire should i clean the kitchen before-_

“Are you _trying_ to give yourself a cold, captain?”

And there it is. That voice, all southern hospitality and faux ferociousness, is the very cause and solution to half of his problems.

Bitty smiles, leans against the banister before making a face at the peeling paint that flakes onto his jacket. He brushes the white flecks off of the “SMH” patch on his arm, grumbling about how old this darned house is. There’s a slight blush that’s pushing out from under his skin - probably from walking from class, Jack notes - that’s reddening the tips of his ears and leaving a gentle pink along his cheeks. The smile he’s giving Jack is bright and genuine and for his eyes only, just like any other time he’s given Jack attention. There’s a small quirk to it, though, another chirp itching to leave his lips.

Bitty has this way of making everything stronger, softer, simpler, safer. The rough edges are easier to take around him; the small victories feel like winning the Stanley Cup.

He’s, in a word, amazing.

He’s, in several words, in denial of the fact that he’s amazing and it’s killing Jack.

He’s, in more words, starting to look a bit disconcerted at Jack’s nonexistent attempt to defend himself from his chirps and is instead staring at him as if Bitty’s the most beautiful thing on this side of the Mississippi.

                                    (He is.)

Jack recovers. More or less. “Hey, Bittle,” he manages. “How was class?” He swings his legs once more before lifting them up and over the railing, placing his feet on the porch. Bitty responds with a chipper, “As good as an entry-level biology class can go”, allowing a huff of annoyance to find its way out of his chest. Jack offers a hand to Bitty, who hands him a few grocery bags from the murder Stop ‘N’ Shop in return. It’s an unspoken mannerism; a long-formed habit. Bitty forces himself to keep his fingers from jerking away out of pure nervousness when they skim along Jack’s during the exchange. He clears his throat and ignores how much thought he put into such a simple interaction. They stand - just close enough to be friends, just far enough to be nothing past that - outside for a few minutes and relax as they get into their usual banter.

Jack smiles as Bitty starts into the house, exclaiming that, “- there weren’t any peaches! Isn’t that just the most ridiculous thing? I mean, heavens, how am I supposed to make peach pie without _peaches_?! Well, so, anyways, I went and hurried myself to this shack and this old lady who, bless her heart, Jack, I don’t think she even remembered why she was there...”

The Haus gets more lively the moment Bitty enters it. It’s not even the smell of pies baking or Bitty’s music floating around the Haus, really. It’s just him. He has that effect on, well, everything. People make an effort to spend time outside of their rooms, away from that god-awful (“loved!” “ _repulsive,_ Shitty”) green couch and into the kitchen. Lights are brighter. Laughter’s louder. It’s one of the only times where nothing is too sharp, too dangerous, for Jack to handle. Bitty smooths everything over and leaves him at ease.

Well, usually, nothing is sharp. But sometimes... Sometimes, the way Bitty’s eyes look after laughing at one of Jack’s jokes, the outlines of his small body, the quiet severity when he talks about checking practice - they’re jarringly in focus compared to everything else and it’s hard to do anything more than breathe steadily.

Bitty wastes no time in beginning a new pie, shushing Jack’s, “Shouldn’t you be doing your homework first?” with a quick flick of his spoon.

“Ain’t nothin’ that’s more important than a good pie after a long week.”

“Tough week, eh?”

Bitty offers a slight shrug, embarrassed to admit it. Between practice going poorly, projects piling, and Betsy burning 5 out of 8 of his pies (of which he’s had to throw out _three),_ he’s about had it with March altogether. He’s sure Jack could say the same. If he’s not doing homework, he’s on the phone, speaking to his dad in some form of French Bitty couldn’t hope to understand. If he’s not talking to his dad, he’s talking to George; if he’s not talking to George, he’s asleep.

Or spending time with Bitty, apparently. He allows himself to think about it a moment too long and pays for it with the way his heart beats erratically against his ribcage.

Jack says, “Next week’ll be better”, with quiet assurance. Bitty isn’t sure if Jack’s trying to convince himself or Bitty.

Bitty responds with a gentle, “Of course it will.” He’s still not sure who’s trying to convince who.

He cocks his head slightly at the familiar sound of a stair creaking (the third from the bottom, he’s learned that from many checking practices at 4 AM when his breaths alone felt too loud). He’d bet money that it’s Shitty coming to sneak up on Jack, like always. Jack hears it too and gives Bitty a knowing smile that’s closer to a slight twitch of the lips.

Jack humors him. He always has.

Sure enough, Shitty pounces seconds later and gives Jack an affectionate noogie, complaining that, “your arms are fuckin’ cold, man, did you go hug a goddamn snowman on the way in?” Satisfied with eventually wringing a half-chuckle from Jack, he hooks an arm around his shoulders. Bitty grins at how comfortable they are with each other. Really, Shitty can be a bit overbearing, but Jack’s known him long enough to somehow grow used to it. Regardless, they’re each other’s best friend and it makes Bitty feel at peace. That someone can make Jack feel alright for a few minutes, at least.

They all make their usual banter, Jack and Bitty an island counter away because he can only take so much of this every day. Really.

He leaves the bowl with the leftover filling - maple sugar crusted apple, Jack’s favorite - in front of his seat with the spoon. He doesn’t watch for Jack’s smile, and he sure doesn’t wait to see him lick the filling off of it; he’s learned from his mistakes.

-

Bitty’s sitting on Jack’s bed (after he’s made sure Shitty hasn’t been lying in it naked lately, of course) with Jack after team dinner. He’s got the eraser end of his pencil tapping his bottom lip and his entry level chemistry homework is starting to look more and more like Russian as he stares at the page. It’s showing on his face and he doesn’t bother to hide it, opting to mumble about “damn gen. ed. credits” and “useless natural sciences” and “don’t even know what my major is; how’ll this help at all” instead. Jack, on the other hand, has his fork hanging out of his mouth, a plate that once held pie in his lap, and he looks completely serene. Which only makes Bitty more frustrated. He slams his book shut and drops it onto the floor next to the bed. Jack glances away from the article he’s reading for class on his laptop and raises an eyebrow. Bitty mutters, “Not a word, Mr. Zimmerman.”

Jack’s fork is threatening to fall out of his mouth the way he’s smirking.

They end up watching some documentary for Jack’s class together. It’s completely optional, but he would’ve watched it in his free time anyways. It’s a lengthy film about a Louis XVII from France or something. Bitty doesn’t really remember or care. Jack had it queued on Netflix, as if he had known this entire time Bitty wouldn’t actually get his work done. Bitty is, regrettably, pretty predictable when it comes to homework and procrastination.

Jack’s face during the documentary is the same when discussing plays with the team. The chirp potential is oh-so tempting, but there’s something innocent about this moment that they’re sharing. Jack’s always been hard to read; right now he looks so willingly vulnerable around him that it feels like a privilege. It’s intimate to the point that Bitty feels guilty about the way their feet, their knees, their hips, their shoulders, keep making contact. It pulls at his stomach and he keeps checking his phone as a temporary distraction.

Though, really, Shitty’s constant commentary about whatever movie he’s watching in the room over should be enough of a distraction.

-

Bitty pulls his flannel closer to his chest, an involuntary tremble travelling up his spine and down back as the wind pushes against him. It’s only late March, and nighttime at that. Even if Jack is  fine in just a thin shirt, his point still stands that it’s cold out, simple and plain.

“Are you even sure this is safe?” He asks, uncertain. He’s got one foot inside the Haus, the other cautiously perched on the rickety slats covering the “reading room”, stuck in the window with a frown on his face. Small as he is, he swears the old roof is still groaning against his weight.

“Bittle, Shitty and I come out here all the time. So does Lardo,” Jack responds. He’s already situated comfortably with a blanket in his lap. There’s a chirp already half formed in his head and threatening to come through those ridiculous French-Canadian lips, so Bitty huffs and pulls himself onto the roof, slowly shuffling to get closer to Jack.

“I hope you realize that if I fall and die, you’re never getting another pie for the rest of your life. I’ll haunt you. I mean it, Jack.”

“Alright, alright. I wouldn’t do anything that would risk losing one of our best players, eh?”

Bitty turns a pleasant shade of pink at that and can only pray it’s dark enough out to hide it. If Jack notices, he doesn’t say anything. Instead, he hands Bitty a beer from the six-pack resting against his right thigh. He clinks the cheap tin of his own beer against Bitty’s with a soft, “Cheers”. He’s got his legs crossed under the blanket, leaving enough for him to throw the excess over Bitty’s legs. And, well, if it leaves Bitty having to snuggle in against his side to get properly covered, who’s to judge?

It’s a Saturday night; the Haus is packed from door to door with people on the first floor. Bitty’s not surprised, they just had senior’s night and Nursey had netted a beautiful goal with ten seconds left in the third. (Bitty had gotten an assist with Jack in the second, too; he’d hugged Bitty, hand cupping the back of his helmet and Bitty’s face against his chest, but. Well, that was beside the point.) If that wasn’t worth celebrating, he didn’t know what was. Surprisingly enough, it was all but silent out in the reading room. The wind was eager to bite at any and all exposed skin, but Bitty was grateful for the chance to break away from the party when Jack had nudged him and jerked his head upstairs.

He wasn’t expecting for Jack to join the party at all. Maybe it was because it was his last Haus party, but he made a point to mingle for at least a minute or two with everyone. It was sad, thinking that he only had a finite, indeterminate amount of games left with Jack before -

_Nop_ e. Bitty takes a long, deep swig of the beer in his hand. It’s awful, but anything was better than thinking about that.

Another gust of wind blows into them and Bitty’s teeth chatter as he pulls the flannel closer. He glances at Jack, his profile tipped upwards to look at the sky. His features are prominent as ever in the light of the lampposts, the full moon, the lights strung just below them, and he’s been quiet since Bitty got up here.

Bitty’s gotten better with not talking aimlessly as often once he learned that Jack liked silent company, but a boy can only do so much. He lasts about another minute before he starts going. He talks about the game, Dex and Nursey and Chowder, his mama, that awful forward on the opposing team tonight - “#22?” “Yes! That’s the one. Gosh, he just made my blood boil! If he checked Ollie one more time...”  - and Jack let him go until he started to taper off, only ever interjecting to show he was still listening.

Bitty’s had enough from the party below to have a solid buzz that makes his head light and his eyes heavy, so he doesn’t have enough of a filter to stop himself from saying, “Good thing you won’t have to deal all my babbling in a few months, huh?”

Jack shifts next to him, thigh pushing against his. He takes a careful sip of his drink and leans so his shoulder rests back against the wall of the Haus. “I’ll miss it.”

Bitty turns to look at him; Jack does the same. “Pardon?”

“I’ll miss it. I’ll- uh, I’ll... Miss you, too. I mean, I’ll miss everyone. And I’ll visit. But I’ll miss you boys.” Jack scratches his nose with his pinkie, stumbling over nearly every other word.

Bitty watches him for a second, chest tight and mouth dropped open before his lips spread into a broad grin. “You’ll miss me? Even my ramblings?”

Jack rolls his eyes. “Sure, even those. Can’t say I’ll miss the 7 AM shower sing alongs, though.”

“I’m exposing you to important artists!” Bitty exclaims, indignant, and nudges up against his arm in a half-hearted attempt to smack it. They both laugh, and neither move away. Jack’s warm despite the night air, and Bitty could really use the extra heat. After a hesitant minute, Bitty rests his head against Jack’s shoulder.

It’s a soft moment, despite the dangerous water he’s treading.

They stay out there until Jack sneezes and Bitty drags him inside while fretting about “getting the captain sick before we start playoffs”.

-

Jack’s signing a kid’s hat during the frozen four championship, a gentle grin spreading from ear to ear. Ransom says if the NHL was all ran by children like Jack’s peewee hockey team, he’d never be called stuff like “broody” ever again. Holster refers to kids as “Jack’s soft spot” (or twerps, depending on if he’s home when you ask him). Bitty’s watching out of the corner of his eye as Chowder tells the rest of the team about weird pre-game superstitions. Jack notices and catches Bitty’s attention, giving that same soft smile to him.

Bitty tries to return it before turning back to Chowder with a knot twisting his stomach.

-

Jack carries Bitty back to the Haus after Spring C. It could be the four - five...seven... - Jell-O shots being kind to him, but Bitty thinks Jack’s hands linger longer than what’s considered friendly after dropping him off in his bed. It almost seems protective, but. Doesn’t matter. Too drunk to think about it. He has a go at trying to kick off his right shoe - “where’d the first one go” manages to surface in his mind for a fraction of a second - until Jack gives an amused sigh and pulled it off for him.

Bitty says something, all slurred and melancholy, about losing his favorite red shoes. He thinks Jack replies with something along the lines of, “You have more than one pair of red shoes?” but he grows quiet while finding a bottle of water to put on the table next to Bitty’s head. Bitty already has the covers thrown over him, haphazard, halfway to the messy sleep that only comes with alcohol.

There’s a hesitant presence of a hand resting on the mess of hair on top of his head, then darkness as the door creaks shut.  

Despite the absolute, godawful pounding in Bitty’s head that left him all but useless on his bed, he very distinctly remembers waking up to seeing two red shoes next to his bed.

-

Jack’s watching a hockey game on TV in the living room, getting the green couch to himself for once. This is only because Bitty chose to sit between his legs on the floor rather than spend a “single damned second on that hell-covered couch”. So. Bitty’s caged in by one leg on either side of him. He’s got a head resting one of Jack’s knees while he scrolls through his mentions on Twitter, smiling to himself occasionally. It’s been a long few months and though it’s finally starting to warm up outside, everyone’s been more than tense after their loss. Right now feels like Jack’s first fraction of down time since then, and Bitty won’t infringe on that by talking. In all honesty, it feels like his first day where he hasn’t been running like a chicken with its head cut off, too. Exhaustion is beginning to settle into his bones. Homework can wait one more day.

Even without tipping his head back to look at Jack, he can tell he’s giving the game all the attention he’s got. His legs tighten their grip around Bitty’s sides every time someone takes a shot - the goal the home team made five minutes ago is sure to leave a bruise on Bitty’s ribs from the way Jack seized up. He can feel Jack blow sigh after sigh out until it reaches the nape of his neck. Bitty can almost see the notes and strategies Jack’s making in his mind. Bitty offers a quiet hum after especially good plays to show he’s somewhat paying attention, though Jack probably doesn’t mind one way or the other.

Bitty hears a faint thump upstairs and remembers almost everyone is home right now. Ransom’s most likely studying in his room, Holster passed out by his feet on his bed. That’s the last picture Ransom had sent to the group chat, anyway. Shitty’s gotten frustrated on whatever he’s been working on, Bitty’s sure. The thud came from above the living room. Jack didn’t seem to notice, his chin in his hand, elbow resting on his knee as he watches the home team get the third power play of the period.

Bitty tears his eyes from the screen when he hears a small grumble almost directly behind his head, growing louder and frankly sounding a bit gross. He tips his head back to look at an upside-down Jack, eyebrows furrowed together. Jack greets his look with an amused smile. Bitty lifts his phone above his face to check the time - how is it already 7:00? - and asks, “When’s the last time you ate, Jack?”

“Noon? Whenever we had lunch at Annie’s.”

Bitty gives a small click of the tongue and readies himself to stand up, joints creaking all over his body from sitting for so long. “Jack Zimmermann, what am I gonna do with you.”

Jack lets out a small huff and says, “Sit down, Bittle. I’m not hungry.”

“You gotta eat, future NHL superstar.” Bitty places a palm on Jack’s knee to help get to his feet. Jack puts a hand on his shoulder, though, gently pushing him back down to the ground.

“Just relax. It’s fine.”

Bitty rolls his eyes, grumbling one thing or another about how he’s gonna lose five pounds by morning and tries to desperately ignore the fact that Jack’s hand hasn’t left his shoulder.

He gives up on that exactly 4 seconds later when Jack’s thumb starts making small circles near his neck.

The Lord never intended him to be this gay.

He tries to shake it off with a weak joke, saying, “If this is your attempt at a massage, it’s a lousy one.”

Jack’s movements falter, considering his options. His grip tightens slightly before his fingers slip away back to his lap. Bitty regrets it, but he does take the open opportunity to jump to his feet, running to the kitchen before Jack can reel him back in. He has a childish grin on his face as he darts across the hall. His socks slip on the wood floor and almost take him out, but he catches his balance on the island counter and calls out to Jack, “What do you want for dinner?”

He doesn’t hear a response, so he rolls his eyes and turns to the freezer. He tosses options over his shoulder - “Burgers... Corn dogs? Lord, these look like they have freezer burn... Why is there Sriracha in the freezer?!” - and assumes Jack’s listening. His nose is starting to chill with the rest of the meat in the freezer and he shuts the door with a sigh.

He jumps when he sees Jack waiting, hip resting against the doorjamb. He wants to scold him, but there’s something about the way he’s watching Bitty that makes his mouth clamp shut. Jack’s got his arms crossed, eyes downward to stare him fully in the face, and Bitty can’t help but think they’re lingering on his lips. (Wishful thinking is a beautiful thing.)

They spend a moment like that, beer commercials playing in the other room and both waiting for the other to make a move. Bitty blinks, hard.

“Did you - did you want to - Jack?”

The next second happens in a quick blur with several steps melting together. The first one, Jack lifts himself off of his hip resting against the frame and steps into Bitty’s space in one movement. The second, Bitty finds his back going to the door of the fridge. The third, Jack cups Bitty’s jaw with one hand and rests the other gently on his hip. The fourth, Jack’s lips are on Bitty’s and he can taste the mint from the chap stick on his lips and feel the grip on his hip tighten and his eyes slide shut right as Jack’s mouth opens wide and -

And Bitty pulls away as far as he can, head slamming into the fridge. A quick shock of pain shoots through his head and down his spine, but he doesn’t pay mind to that. Both their chests are heaving and Bitty isn’t sure when his hands got tangled in Jack’s hair, but there they are. His eyes are darting back and forth, frantic, confused, watching Jack’s half-lidded eyes watching him. His hands drop down to Jack’s shoulders as he lowers from his tiptoes and he gasps out, “What the hell was that?!”

Jack opens his mouth, but Bitty doesn’t give much opportunity for him to explain himself before he’s pulling Jack in by his hoodie. He has half a mind to apologize when he feels Jack’s front tooth meet his, but his other half is focusing on getting Jack as close to his body as possible. His back arches, lifting away from the fridge as Jack’s fingers work their way near his ass to push him up. A foot lifts off the ground, his leg linking around Jack’s as he tilts his head to get at Jack’s mouth. Bitty’s other foot edges on tiptoes, struggling to keep up with Jack’s extra height.

Without warning, Jack ducks his head a bit to kiss at Bitty’s neck, giving him a chance to catch his breath and stare at the ceiling in a complete daze. (It’s easier to ignore the dark brown stain on the ceiling tiles when his crush is mouthing at the soft skin near his collarbone.)

He lets out a soft gasp when he feels Jack shift to pick him up. Bitty automatically wraps his legs around his waist, links his hands behind his neck, can’t help but stare and stare and stare at Jack with his eyes glazed over -

Jack all but drops Bitty on his ass when they hear Ransom and Holster stomping down the stairs, mid-debate.

“- just don’t get why I have to get up for chicken tender night.”

“Because they’re not just gonna appear on our nightstand. Besides, dude, you set the alarm for me to take a break. I’m just following your rules.”

Bitty’s busy rummaging through the fridge when they pass through the hallway, Jack sitting on the stool.

Ransom pulls on some shoes while he leans against the doorframe. Holster yawns and tugs on ~~his~~ Ransom’s sweatshirt he’s wearing. “You guys wanna get chicken tenders?”

“No, I’m not hungry-”  
  


“No, y’all just go on ahead. We’re good.”

Ransom shifts his weight back onto both feet, one hand already on the door. “‘Kay, if you say so.”

Jack and Bitty wait approximately 4.7 seconds after the front door shuts to run to Bitty’s room.

-

They talk for a long time.

They kiss.

They talk some more.

(They kiss, they kiss, they hold and learn, they laugh, they stifle their nervous thoughts. They rest despite their restless hearts and wake up trying to remember how any of this managed to happen. They smile.)

-

Jack graduates; Shitty graduates. Chowder cries more than Bitty; this is mostly because Bitty’s fighting the small tremors of terror that twist his stomach and make his hands unsteady. Jack finds simple ways to send reassuring touches between them. Bitty has to press his lips together to stop his mouth from turning upwards every time he feels Jack’s fingers brush against his back.

When Jack walks across the stage, Bitty cheers the loudest.

-

Jack blinks the sleep out of his eyes as his toes curl, the linoleum of his kitchen apartment cold despite the warm weather outside. (Bitty finally asked to come up before preseason after Jack had dropped not-so-subtle daily hints.)

Jack feels Bitty wind his small arms around his waist, feels the sports bra rub along his bare back and Bitty’s warm skin flush against his own, feels Bitty’s wet head of hair. He feels Bitty’s grin press against him as he chirps, “Is Jack Zimmermann making a breakfast that isn’t a pop-tart or toast?”

“Pancakes. I ran out of pop-tarts this week.”

“Mmm, poor thing. Pop-tarts are _so_ expensive.”

“Chocolate blueberry pancakes.”

“Oh, honey, I’ve never loved you more.”

-

Bitty slowly moves bits of his life into Jack’s apartment. Shorts and shirts, then old textbooks. A few decorations. A small wardrobe for every season. Jack buys Bitty enough equipment to feed a small army off of his pies. By the time he graduates, neither of them had really considered Bitty living anywhere else. It’s easier, really.

After officially moving in - “officially” meaning Bitty putting his pillow next to Jack on his bed - he all but jumps into Jack’s arms to pull him down for a kiss. Familiar angles and curves fit in familiar spots as Jack cups Bitty’s face with one hand, runs the other down his ribs to rest on his side. Bitty smiles into it, like he almost always does. Jack’s eyes slowly slide open when he hears a camera go off.

“Really, Bits.”

“I have to document this! It’s important!”

“‘Mkay, chouchou,” Jack murmurs against Bitty’s lips, moving down to his chin. “Which one is this going to?”

“Instagram.” Bitty turns his head to caption the picture while Jack kisses his jaw. He pauses for a moment, thumb hovering over the post button. It’s been more than a few months since Jack came out, but his heart still lodges itself in his throat whenever he posts a picture.

He turns back to Jack and smiles. Jack gives a crooked grin back - Bitty’s freckles are always more noticeable when his nose scrunches like that. He offers Jack another sweet kiss.

“Welcome home, Bits.”

“Oh, gosh. I’m home, baby.”

**Author's Note:**

> ericrbittle  
> Home sweet home! Time for the next chapter to begin. ❤ #thisboy
> 
> ♥ 1, 782 likes
> 
> View all 76 comments
> 
> Zemgem11 @sophalee look!!! 
> 
> Providencefalconers Looking good! We’ll send over @a91mashkov if you need any help unpacking!
> 
> Dereknurrse GET IT BITS
> 
> -
> 
> "hey soph why's bitty in a sports bra" he's trans!!


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